Sympathique
by fusosososo
Summary: Francis and Arthur can't stand each other most of the time. However a cruel twist of fate and a life-changing phone call turn their world upside down as the two have to team up to be parents to two orphaned children, Matthew and Alfred.
1. La Téléphone

C'est Samedi and I'm staring directly at Arthur Kirkland who stubbornly refuses to turn away from his pint. We are in an English pub; it's barely eight o'clock and we are already struggling to ease the tension between us having only been in each other's presence for an hour.

This always seems to happen when I am with Arthur. He is a brash, silly Englishman who pretends to dislike me when in reality he enjoys my company. I have always teased him – ever since we met at school (I transferred to London to go to an international school when I was eleven). But it doesn't seem to bother him. Of course, his feathers get ruffled in that strange way of his but really, Arthur has had plenty of chances to stop being friends with me.

I should mention that 'friends' is a very polite way of putting our relationship. Friends with benefits would be more fitting. But 'friends' is still too kind – which leaves us with enemies with benefits, which is probably about right.

We are constantly at each others throats, always arguing about something or other. It is surprising to me that we even attempt to be in one another's company for anything other than "a shag". Arthur has not quite caved in to my good looks and French charm yet tonight. But I'm working on it, right now actually.

I shift closer to Arthur but, as if by reflex, he pushes me back and out of his personal space.

"Piss off, frog," he says primly, somewhat slurred; he is on his third pint.

"Oh, how you wound me so," I roll my eyes, taking a sip from my own drink. Unlike Arthur I prefer the finer things in life such as wine over Guinness. "You are no fun, Arthur. Lighten up, uh?"

He glares at me and pointedly continues to do so whilst taking his next sip. _Merde alors_, sometimes it is like talking to a wall. I expect I could probably get better conversation out of a wall, and persuade it to have sex with me, all in less time than it takes for Arthur to say one nice thing to me. Mais non, Arthur is the only sensible option. We both know that this charade will end once Arthur thinks that he is suitably drunk enough to say I am taking advantage rather than admitting that he actually wants to have 'relations' with me.

"No," his teeth are gritted together as he grinds out the words: "get stuffed, you cheeky bastard."

"It is not my fault that you will not accept that you like spending time with me," I shrug.

"Fucking hell, Francis!" Arthur is suddenly on his feet, scowling abhorrently at me. I quirk an eyebrow, being the adult as per usual.

"Oui?"

"Don't you bloody 'wee_'_ me. I don't want you here. I want to be alone. I told you that before you invited yourself along and all you've done since is insult me and wind me up! You are truly the most moronic, twat-ish, fucking _git_ that I have ever met in my life!" he bellows at me.

We are both silent for a moment. Other people in the pub are beginning to stare openly at us and Arthur looks like he's going to burst with anger.

"I'm assuming that you want me to go?"

I leave without another word as he continues to shout, swearing at me within an inch of his life. I ignore him. It's hardly shocking behaviour to me – he had done exactly the same thing last week when we went drinking. Although unlike before, I don't think that he's going to come running after me and bum a cigarette.

Arthur calls smoking his "dirty habit" and insists every time that it will be his last one and that I shouldn't give them to him but he begs in such a humiliating way that I can hardly resist. I think we both secretly know that this ambition of his is like every New Year's resolution he has ever made; pointless. One year, he even promised himself that he would never eat chocolate again. That, of course, didn't happen.

Not to say that he isn't determined in some aspects of life. His job, par example. He works hard every day, which is more than I can say for myself. Arthur works in publishing and is almost constantly reading a new manuscript, in meetings, or writing on his laptop. It is the perfect excuse for me to curl up in bed beside him and make all of the troubles of the world disappear on those frequent, exhausting nights… when I am not kicked out of his house, of course.

I, on the other hand, am an artist but I work as a waiter in a local restaurant. I have two nights off every week but when I do work, it's for long hours. It's very different to in France. There, being a waiter is a career and you can earn a fair amount of money from just working a lunchtime shift on the Champs-Élysée, but it's not the same in London. I am barely earning minimum wage, and I sometimes can barely afford to pay the rent for my flat in Brixton that I share with my two friends.

Alors, He missed France sometimes, like when he was on the Tube and could hear French tourists chattering away. The women always looked so pretty, and so neat. They, like him, stood out against the English. Their way of speaking, their manner, their voices -everything.

It was a huge shock coming to London as a Frenchman, having grown up on a farm. Luckily enough for me, we lived just outside Versailles and that enabled me to visit Paris frequently. My parents were hugely encouraging for my love of art, seeing as it a large part of French culture. But they wanted me and my sister to stay on the farm, which wasn't something I wanted to do (and still don't). I can remember begging them for months on end to get them to let me go to school in Britain until I was eighteen so that I could experience the world. Looking back, I can understand their hesitance. I have never gone back. At least I'm not as far away as my sister, Marianne has gone. She moved all the way to Canada when she was barely eighteen and got married to some American. We haven't really heard from her since.

I pull out my key to the flat that I share with my two closest friends: Antonio and Gilbert. Antonio is what one might describe as a Latin lover – he is Spanish and is studying at university (something I wish I had gone to, really). Gilbert, on the other hand, is from the east of Germany. He's a bit older than Toni and I but we didn't really have much of a choice but to live with him. Gilbert came with the flat. He had already made a deal with the landlord that he would move in here, but he couldn't afford it on his own – which is where Antonio and I came in.

When I enter the flat, they have both gone to bed already. Antonio has lectures in the morning and Gilbert, work. I toe off my shoes and sit down on the sofa, contemplating opening the bottle of wine that I bought a few days prior. I've managed to store it safely under my bed so that the other two won't find it. Although that doesn't mean that it wouldn't surprise me if I found Gilbert had gone through my belongings and taken it. He seems to have a sixth sense for finding alcohol.

We live in quite a small flat for three people. There are only six rooms, which sounds like a lot until you work out that three of them are box-sized bedrooms and the other three are a living area, kitchen/dining room and a tiny bathroom. Each room has unappealing décor and is far too small to have three people in at the same time.

My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. At first, I assume it will be Arthur calling to abuse me verbally via telephone but then I see a number that I don't recognise, with a foreign area code at the beginning. I answer tentatively.

"'Allo?" I adopt my 'I'm French, please don't assume I'm English' act.

"Hello, sir. Is this Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?" his accent is strange. It sounds French but has an American lilt to it. And he seems to be unwilling to speak French, irritatingly enough.

"Yes, that's me. Who am I speaking to?"

"My name is Augustin Tremblay. I am from the Québec police; I am calling about your sister." That explains the accent – he is Canadian. I don't like the sound of this… surely he should be able to speak French if he is from Québec?

"My sister?" Marianne.

"Yes, sir. I regret to inform you that your sister has passed away."

She…

My chest feels tight, like there's a huge weight pressing down on me, preventing me from breathing. I feel numb, I can't think of anything else other than the last time I saw her beautiful, smiling face. She was so happy, so perfect. My sister, my Marianne is dead.

Tears begin to prick my eyes.

"How…? When…?" I can barely speak, my voice is wavering. "Do my parents know?" My Mother, my poor Mother.

"She was involved in a car accident today. At about six o'clock in, uh, GMT… It wasn't her fault." The car accident wasn't her fault. _Merde_. "We were not aware that she had any parents."

So whilst I had been pestering Arthur, Marianne had been dying. All I can picture in my head is her lying in her car, body broken; her brown-blonde hair matted with blood, eyes wide as if she had screamed in agony. I hope she didn't scream, that she didn't feel pain. But it is wistful thinking, I know.

Mon amour, ma petite soeur, ma vie…

I have obviously been quiet for too long, as Augustin coughs down the phone, reminding me either that he is still there or the sheer amount of money this is costing him per second.

"There is a child, sir." A child. _Non, non, non…_ "He's called Mathieu."

Mon Dieu. Mathieu. I have a nephew – why didn't she tell me? She could have written, emailed, phoned. Marianne could have told me. I look up at the ceiling, trying to restrain the soft sobs that rattle through my body.

"And her husband?" I bet that he was in the car crash too. That poor child.

"Marianne has been divorced for two years now."

_Connard._ I can't believe that he ran out on her. Anger swells in my gut, along with the combination of other emotions.

"I see… then, how old is Mathieu?"

"Three." Three. I can barely conceal the hiccup that escapes my lips. "I'm sorry, sir. Mathieu does not have a guardian and you are his next of kin. What would you like us to do with him?"

"I will look after him," I say without thinking. It's what Marianne would want although I can't help but wonder why they don't contact his father.

"Okay, sir. I will phone you tomorrow to discuss arrangements. I suggest that you get some rest."

"Et le enf – Mathieu?"

"Mathieu will stay in a children's home until arrangements are made."

"O-okay. Thank you, sir. Good bye."

"Good bye."

I end the call and drop the phone on to the floor. It seems as though my life is about to get much more complicated. I stare at the gross purple carpet for a few minutes, numb before I make myself move. I go to my room and pick up my bottle of wine.

I drink all of it in less then twenty minutes.


	2. A Drunken Frenchman

_Hey! Thank you for reading so far!_

_As a note, each chapter will alternate between narratives. The last chapter was Francis, this chapter is Arthur - the story will continue in this fashion. _

* * *

><p>I haven't seen nor heard from Francis for three days. I can't help but wonder if he's finally decided to leave me alone or not. I won't be surprised if he has.<p>

Francis Bonnefoy has been my friend since I was eleven years old. He was a prat then, and he still is now. If I was going out with a girl, he would turn up and make them swoon. If I was going out with a boy, he'd suck them off behind the bicycle sheds. Francis is quite simply the bane of my life. He's always mucked me about and I'm convinced that we're only still friends so that he can shag me.

He always belittles my appearance and makes me feel as if I'm about three inches tall. It's unkind and uncalled for (most of the time). We've even been reduced to physically fighting one another in the street before, over some girl from the Seychelles. I can't remember her bloody name for the life of me now…

Lord knows why I'm standing outside of the flats that he lives in; in bloody Brixton, for Christ's sake. I don't feel bad, of course. The twat had it coming. I just don't want him to be lying on his floor, having choked on his own vomit. That would be awkward to explain to his parents, considering that I can't speak the blasted language. I can just imagine it:

"_Bonjore, Bonnefoys."_

"_Quoi? C'est un Anglais," they would roll their eyes._

"_Votruh garson est… uh…"_

"_Oui?"_

"_Ill est… dead?"_

"_Parle en Français!"_

"_Look, your son is dead, you silly French bastard and you would know if you spoke a more sensible language!"_

It wouldn't be fun. And thinking about it more logically, it would probably be up to his friends to explain what had happened to his parents. I would still be to blame, though.

I have to wait a minute or so before Antonio answers, his voice distorted on the microphone. It crackles.

"Hello?" his accent is thick, Spanish. Francis always calls him a 'Latin lover' for some ridiculous reason. Although I'm almost certain that it's because they have exchanged sexual favours for one another before. I don't like to think about it.

"It's Arthur. I was wondering if –"

"¡Gracias! I am glad you are here," he interrupts. "Come up. Please." And he buzzes me in.

I frown and begin to make my way up the many flights of stairs to their flat. The lift is still broken, just like it has been for the past year. When I reach their floor, Gilbert is waiting for me in the hall. He doesn't look as mischievous as he usually does, instead he looks rather sombre.

"He's in there," the German nods at the open door. No cutting quip? I'm surprised. Something must have happened. Maybe his girlfriend has broken up with him again?

Their flat is messy, as is to be expected with these three. The curtains are drawn shut; the living area is a mess, strewn with clothes and dirty glasses and plates. And the kitchen is sordid – which is yet another indication that something is wrong; that and the fact that Francis is sat in the middle of the open-plan room, staring blankly out of the window.

"Francis?" I begin to approach him. He looks as though he's barely slept. His eyes are blood-shot and he hasn't shaved at all (which, although he usually has light stubble is not anything like what he looks like now). There are several empty bottles surrounding him. It looks like Francis has had anything alcoholic that he can drink. Perhaps that's why Gilbert looks so forlorn. I can see some beer cans lying around.

He doesn't answer me and I assume that he's just ignoring me.

"Francis?" I repeat again, crouching in front of him. Antonio leaves and goes into his bedroom, looking upset. Francis is expressionless for some time until he grins at me as though he has only just noticed that I'm there. It's a broken smile.

"Bonne soir, mon amour," he slurs. I grimace as his breath reaches my nostrils which flare at the heavy scent of alcohol. "Have some wine." He looks to his side and then pouts melodramatically. "Oh, it seems that we do not have anymore. Whoops," he guffaws. "I must have drunk all of it."

This is so odd for me. I have never seen Francis so drunk before. Had the situation been different, I would have laughed.

"I can see that," I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder. "Francis, what happened?" I try to ask him as slowly as I can. He just laughs again before falling silent. "Francis?" I prompt, but I wait (patiently, might I add) and receive nothing. I have to resort to breaking into my awful French. "Etez-voo bee-an?"

Suddenly, he's in tears. His entire body shakes as he begins to bawl, clutching at his golden hair. Shit, is my French _that bad?_ Belatedly I realise that he is muttering under his breath in French, but not about my atrocious bastardisation of it. I'm not sure what to do. I haven't ever seen a fully grown man cry before, let alone Francis. Despite loathing him utterly and hopelessly, the way that he is crying it making my stomach churn. I want to make him smile, to make him happy.

"Ma soeur," he sobs. "Elle est mort. Elle est mort! Ma souer!"

Oh God…

All I can do is slide my arm around his shoulders to hold him. He doesn't lean into the touch, in fact he barely reacts. He just keeps crying.

My chest feels tight. I don't know what to say. I never know what to bloody say. This infuriating, perplexing man always leaves me bewildered and unprepared for whatever he might come out with. We sit there, somewhat awkward, as Francis tries to control himself. He's dribbling on to my leg from his howls of grief.

"I'm sorry," I say at last, uselessly watching the back of his head as he shakes. He needs a bath, I think absently. His hair is dirty and sticking to his face, slick with grease and sweat (and probably wine). He reeks of booze, too.

I rise to my feet and try to pull him up with me but he acts as a dead weight. I huff, letting go.

"Je ne veux pas de se déplacer," he wails, fiercely struggling away from me. He's comparable to a child.

"Fine," I grit my teeth, barely concealing my nerves. I have no idea of how to stop him from weeping and it's killing me. "I'm going to run you a bath."

Gilbert has buggered off and left me to deal with this, I note sourly.

"Je ne veux pas prendre un bain!"

"Well, tough tits!" I shout in return as I storm off to the bathroom, to run the water. I don't bother to check if it's hot or cold. He's too drunk to care anyway. When I return, he has somehow managed to find his way to the kitchen, fumbling through the drawers. He pulls out a carving knife. I leap over to him and snatch it away.

"Mon cauteau – "

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" I squawk. I throw the knife back into the drawer, slam it shut and stand in the way so that he cannot get to it.

"I was going to make you some dinner… you have not eaten?" he's almost incoherent, barely able to annunciate but at least he's speaking English again now.

Looking into his eyes, I can tell that he's lying. He looks dead, dormant. There's next to nothing in those stunning blue eyes. He is barely recognisable. His sky-blue eyes look straight back at me, and for a moment I'm breathless. Oh Francis. I reach out and cup his cheek in my palm. I dare not think about what he was contemplating to do with that knife.

"I'm sorry," I utter. He looks away from me, avoiding my gaze.

"Il y a un enfant…" he sniffles pathetically.

My heart skips a beat.

"A child? Yours?" I ask fearfully.

"Non, Marianne's." I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. "Marianne had a child. I have said that I will look after him…" I can't tell if he's thinking fondly of the child or if it's just the alcohol clouding his eyes. At least he isn't grappling with me to get to the knife.

"Which is all the more reason why you have to be strong," I hesitate and then tentatively lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead. His skin is slick with sweat. It feels disgusting on my lips, like I've French-kissed a plate of goose-fat. I keep my complaints to myself.

He nods eventually and I take his hand, leading him away from the cluttered kitchen to the bathroom. He can barely walk in a straight line and it takes a lot of effort on my part to keep him both upright and going in the right direction.

"Je me douche," he says and I tut.

"You'll fall over and hurt yourself."

Shutting the door behind us, I turn to him. I blush, having not really considered the consequences of my actions. He sits clumsily on the side of the bath and I have to steady him to make sure that he doesn't slip backwards into the water. He looks at me with confused, bleary eyes.

"Are you staying with m-"

"Yes," I blurt out as to not embarrass myself further.

"Are you getting in with-"

"No."

There's a pause in which Francis makes a face, somewhat disappointed if not confused.

"Oh."

"Look, just raise your arms."

He does as he is told and I start to undress him in this fashion. At first, he isn't very co-operative but he gradually begins to care less and less. Francis has never been known to be a prude; I've seen him naked enough times without asking to.

"You are surprisingly gentle tonight," Francis comments after a long silence.

"Shut it…" I turn away and leave him to remove his underwear – there's a line and I'm not going to cross it. I turn off the water and help him to clamber (not fall) into the bath. He lets out a satisfying sigh as he meets the warm water; luck was clearly on my side tonight. Kneeling beside the tub, I watch the way that his face relaxes. He already looks more like the pampered Francis Bonnefoy I know.

I shift again, moving to perch on the side. I use a wet sponge to gently stroke at his face and torso. The sponge moves in small circles at first but I become more confident and take longer strokes at his body. He won't stop looking at me as I do it, either. I keep my eyes trained to his chest, trying to both avoid his gaze and prevent my own eyes from wandering.

Francis is beautiful. He has luscious locks, soft to the touch; his jaw is dusted with a light layer of stubble that is normally well maintained and trimmed short. He has these ridiculously pretty eyes, like those of a girl. They are a translucent blue, gentle in colour with flecks of violet and cyan dotted around in his iris. They are positively stunning when you look closely – not that I have done, of course… well, maybe once or twice.

His eyes are bloodshot now, red and raw from crying. His lips are swollen from being pressed aggressively to bottles. His entire face looks quite swollen actually, it looks painful. His cheeks are much more hollow and sunken in than I can remember the last time I saw him.

Oh _Francis_…

"What's your nephew called?" I ask, trying to distract his drunken mind with menial questions.

"Mathieu." His breath hitches as I pour soap on to him from a near by bottle. I don't know what it is; I didn't read the label – hair conditioner. Fantastic. Francis can now have shiny, thicker chest hair. Joy of all joys.

"Matthew…?" I slam the bottle back down where I found it. "That's a nice name," I murmur absently.

"Oui," he agrees.

"Is he coming here?" I try to move the sponge in a constant, rhythmic pattern on his neck.

"In a week."

Water is dropped on to him from the sponge, washing away the soap. I can hear the how anxious he sounds by his tone, alone.

"I can go with you if you'd like?" it's a hesitant offer on my part.

"S'il vous plaît," he smiles lazily.

"I'll drive you up there." I'll have to get the time off work, but I don't tell Francis that. He needs a friend and I will be that friend if I must.

"Arthur," his voice is soft, and it makes me stop mid-wipe.

"Yes…?"

"Merci."

I can feel my heart racing and my face heat up. He sounds genuinely grateful, for once. He doesn't even sound like this when ever I lend him money (which he still owes me – it's up to about £600 now).

"Y-you're welcome," I stammer, clearing my throat.

We collaboratively wash his hair. He kneads in the various shampoos that he insists upon using. Even when he's blind drunk, he still somehow manages to care about the products he uses in his hair. God knows why. I rinse out it out for him, regardless, careful not to get the water into his eyes. He keeps complaining about something in French, about me, but I can't shout at him when he's like this. He'd probably threaten to get the knife again; the sadistic bastard.

Francis stumbles out of the bath and I hastily thrust a towel at him for the sake of his dignity (which I would rather not see). He sits clumsily on the toilet seat, eyes still hollow but he isn't as unresponsive now.

Now comes shaving. It's a bit tricky as Francis keeps wiggling and complaining that I have shaved too much of his beard to which I tell him politely to fuck off and shave off the remainder of his beard in spite. His chin is as soft and stubble-free as a baby's bottom; he smells of lavender and after-shave. He begins to weep melodramatically, probably just to make me feel bad.

I silence him with a kiss before he's on his feet again.

Francis walks through the flat, having dropped his towel and not bothered to dry his hair. I charge after him, hoping that no one is around to see. Although, I remember belatedly, Antonio and Gilbert are probably used to it. I find him sprawled out on his bed. I find some underwear and pyjamas in his large wardrobe (that takes up the majority of his small bedroom) and throw them at him. He laughs and tosses them back at me before getting beneath the covers.

"You wear them," he insists. I pull a sour face that he merely grins at in response.

"I'm staying over?" I shift awkwardly from foot to foot. It's already past eleven o'clock and I'd rather not go out into Brixton on my own at this time of night. It's a Friday, after all. The kids don't have school tomorrow so they'll be on the prowl.

"Oui," Francis pats the space beside him in the double-bed. I don't complain seeing as the poor sod has had such a traumatic few days. It does mean, however, that I will have to read Percy Drake's manuscript another day.

Sighing, I turn my back to him to change, shedding my own shirt and trousers in favour of the pyjama bottoms. I purposefully leave my boxers on. When I turn around, Francis is leering. I drop the pyjama shirt on to his head, covering his face. I then roll my eyes at his squeak, trying not to smile before climbing into bed. When I make a grab for the shirt, he flings it across the room.

"Be naked with me," he whined. I try not to laugh and take my place on the edge of the bed, far away from Francis and his conditioned chest-hair. The problem is I've shown affection and now Francis, still dizzy with alcohol, feels as though he must replicate it. He moulds himself against me, curling his body around mine; his arms secure themselves around my waist, meaning that all escape is impossible.

"Bonne nuit, chouchou," he settles his head behind mine, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. I suppress a shiver in favour of a sigh.

"Good night."

It seems like barely five minutes before I have to get up again. Francis in the bathroom, being sick. And as much as my body screams for sleep, I somehow manage to drag myself to sit beside him, rubbing his back. We both eventually fall asleep on the still-wet bathroom floor.


	3. Mathieu

_Going back through my last two chapters, I have realised that there have been some terrible typos. I hope that you'll please excuse them because I have no beta reader!_

_Also, I'm sorry for being gone for such a long time. I'm halfway through the fourth chapter and I'll hopefully put it up within the next three weeks. I've been incredibly busy with schoolwork recently._

* * *

><p>Arthur and I are stood at the arrivals entrance, waiting for an air hostess to emerge with a small child. I do not know what Mathieu is going to look like but the police officer I have been arranging this with has said to look out for a little boy with a teddy bear, because of course that narrows it down… mon Dieu, Arthur's sarcasm seems to be rubbing off on me.<p>

He is just as anxious as I am. He keeps checking his watch and pacing. I don't think that he truly believes me when I say that the child is my sister's, despite the fact that I have never been to Canada. His accusations continue to baffle me. He has once accused me of _stealing_ his boyfriend before. Which is not true. I merely helped Kiku discover the wonders of foreplay – something which Arthur severely needs education on.

For the past week, we have spent a lot of time in each other's company (after I recovered from a three-day hangover, of course). He has been kind to me this week, paying for things for Mathieu and giving himself to me nightly to help me cope with my grief. It is not something that I expected from him. He is usually so indifferent and straight-faced; him showing me any sort of affection is peculiar. But I still have not forgiven him for shaving my beard, which has thankfully almost already grown back.

His pacing is starting to become irritating.

"Can you not stay still?" my voice is clipped.

"Piss off," he scowls.

_Berk_, I frown and begin to concentrate on all of the bustling people. We've had five false alarms so far. It's beginning to test mine and Arthur's patience.

"What if he doesn't come, Arthur?"

"He will," he exhales, "eventually."

"Bien sûr," I roll my eyes. We are silent for what seems like a millennium before I speak up, clearing my throat. "We should play a game to entertain ourselves."

Arthur looks unconvinced. "Like what?"

"Uh… how you say… eye-spy?"

"Eye-spy? Honestly, what a childish game," he mutters before sneering. "Fine. You go first."

I bet he thinks he's good at playing this game.

"D'accord. I spy avec _mon petit oeil_ something beginning with… 'A'."

"Aeroport."

"Merde."

Arthur chuckles quietly.

Then I spot a young lady, red lipstick contrasting against the paleness of her skin. She is wearing the airport's uniform. Beside her is a small boy with long, curly, blonde hair. He is clutching a white bear tightly in his arms. She is carrying two large suitcases at her sides.

"C'est lui."

I quickly cross over to them, Arthur following behind me. The child gawks up at me. He is so small, he barely reaches my knees.

"You must be Mr. Bonnefoy," she puts down the bags and holds her hand out to shake mine.

"Yes, I am him." I give her my most charming of smiles before kneeling in front of Mathieu, who is still holding on to his toy tightly. His expression changes, eyes widening a little in fear. "And you must be Mathieu?"

He nods, lips pouted slightly.

"He mainly speaks French," she notes. I glance up at Arthur who is clearly as fascinated by the child as I am.

"Ah, je vois." Mathieu seems to respond better and I beam at him. "Je m'appelle Francis – salut, Mathieu!" I try to sound as cheerful as possible.

"Salut," he hesitantly replies, moving closer to the air hostess. He is very cute. His hair is long like my own and similar eyes to me, although they have a violet tint to them.

Arthur is shuffling awkwardly behind me.

"Il s'appelle Arthur," I motion back at the Brit with my head. "Il est Anglais."

"Pleased to meet you," Arthur sounds unsure. Mathieu giggles.

"Je parle, un peu…" he is so quiet that I almost don't hear him.

"D'Anglais?"

"Oui…"

"Then speak to us, mon chou. You will need to learn the language."

"O-okay," he seems to be edging away from the air hostess now, towards me.

"I need to go," the woman pipes up. Arthur is quick to shake hands with her.

"Thank you," he's using his authoritative voice.

"You're welcome. Au revoir, Mathieu," she bends down and receives a hug and a sloppy kiss from the toddler.

"He's definitely French," I chuckle to Arthur, who grunts in agreement.

She grins at him once more and then she's gone. We are alone with Mathieu for the first time.

I scoop him up into my arms and although Mathieu is startled for a moment, he seems to relax upon the realisation that he still has his teddy bear. Arthur picks up the luggage as we begin to leave the airport, heading for the car. We now have to travel for twenty minutes on a rickety old bus to take us to where he have parked. Thank you, British government.

"Monsieur?" Mathieu asks as we get on the bus. It surprises me. It's been a long time since a relative of mine has been polite towards me.

"Ah, do not call me that. I am big brother, okay?" I grin at him. "Mais, oui?"

He fiddles with the stitching on his bear. "Where am I?"

"You are in England," I confirm. I can't help but look at Arthur, who is standing a few metres away. He gestures at the seat in front of him, which I gladly take. He remains standing. Perhaps he can be a gentleman sometimes after all?

"Oh," Mathieu looks confused. "I'm… not in Canada…?"

I'm beginning to wonder how much he has been told.

"Non, you are not."

"Francis," Arthur is staring down at us both, holding on to a pole in order to stay up right; his legs are astride the two suitcases to prevent them from falling. His flexibility continues to astound me. "Why don't you speak to him properly in English? He has to learn the language to be able to do well in school. You can't keep throwing French at him."

"He is not four yet," I protest.

"But he will be next year," he shrugs and looks distant again.

"J'ai quatre ans dans l'anée prochain," Mathieu sounds so proud.

"Ah, vraiment?" I purposefully ignore Arthur, who starts to scowl. "Regarde lui," I smirk at Mathieu. "Il est trés stupide, non?"

Mathieu looks lost.

"Pourquoi?"

Now it's my turn to look confused. I thought that children enjoyed picking on others and asking rude questions? Arthur, however, smiles.

"Good lad," and he doesn't stop smiling until we have gotten to the car.

As Arthur is strapping Mathieu into the children's car seat (and getting frustrated that he can't work out the straps), I stand close behind him. He starts to get even more flustered.

"Would you like me to do it?" I sigh eventually as he starts muttering to himself. I can see that Mathieu looks as concerned for Arthur's mental health as I am on daily basis.

"Yes! My God, it's like they _want_ children to die because they aren't strapped in properly!" he storms off, starting to swear now that he's away from Mathieu. Luckily, the 'combination' to securing Mathieu wasn't that complicated. Arthur had done most of it for me.

"Do not mind him, Mathieu," I sigh softly. "Il est Anglais."

Mathieu giggles.

"Anglais," he agrees and I wink at him before looking back over at my companion who is still swearing despite the fact that I've been successful. "Where are we going?" Mathieu speaks up again.

"We are going to your new home."

"Will there be pancakes?"

"Oui," I chuckle. "We will have pancakes when we get home, d'accord?"

Arthur shoves the suitcases into the boot and goes to the front of the car, getting into the driver's seat. In fear that he might leave without me (which honestly would not surprise me if he did), I quickly close Mathieu's door and get into the passenger seat in the front, next to Arthur.

"They didn't even ask to see any identification. We could have been anyone. We could have been paedophiles, for God's sake," Arthur scowled at the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly in his hands.

"Oui, but we are not."

"I suppose…"

It isn't long before we hear Mathieu dozing in the back of the car, head tilted to one side. Arthur keeps glancing back at him in the rear mirror.

"He is very cute, isn't he?" I turn in my seat to look back at him.

"Yes," Arthur answers, belatedly with a sigh.

"You don't think that he is?" I can't help but frown at him.

"It's not that, he's very sweet. I just wonder if he knows what's going on."

"Il est un enfant."

"Exactly, he isn't a baby. If he was this would be much easier for him. So far he's experienced his parents divorce and his mother's death-"

"Don't say it out loud," I hit him harshly on the shoulder which causes him to swerve the car slightly to one side before quickly correcting himself with a panicked look on his face.

"What the _hell_, Francis? Why did you do that? That was bloody dangerous – we could have been killed!"

"It was nothing, you just jerked the car a bit into the other lane."

"Nothing? _Nothing_? Francis, tell me, how many people are killed in road accidents in Britain, on average?"

I make a face.

"I do not know."

"2,000. Do you know how many there are in France?"

"I do not."

"4,000 – don't tell me what's safe and what's not, Frenchy," he snaps. His back is hunched forward over the steering wheel. He looks angry but I don't care. He's reminded me of Marianne and her fatal accident.

"Do not be so blunt when there is a child in the car," I growl at him.

"Then don't be a moron! Don't hit me. Why did you think that would be a good idea, you bloody lunatic?"

We both fall silent only to hear sniffling coming from the back of the car. I whip my head round whilst Arthur simultaneously looks into the rear-view mirror. Mathieu is sobbing. His lower lip is trembling, cheeks flushed pink and shining with tears. I think he's dribbling, too.

"Mathieu, what's wrong? Did Arthur frighten you?" I soften my voice, ignoring how Arthur only tenses up even more beside me.

"I don't want you to fight. It's like Maman and Daddy," he bawled. I can't help but feel guilty. If I hadn't have pushed Arthur, he wouldn't be crying right now.

"Desolé, mon petit. Did we wake you up?"

"Oui," he whines before the volume of his crying increases. "Je veux voir Maman! Je veux Maman!"

"Mathieu… you cannot, I…" I don't know what to say. I cannot out right tell him that his mother (ma soeur) is dead and I cannot lie to him either. I feel tears stinging the back of my _own_ eyes. I want to cry, too. I miss Marianne so much.

"Matthew," Arthur suddenly speaks up, his voice calm and soothing, "how would you like for us to stop and have hot chocolate? Would you like that?"

It works. Mathieu stops crying – mostly. He rubs at his eyes tiredly, nodding.

"Hot chocolate," he repeats.

"Yes, and we can have McDonalds, too," I can hear the strain in his voice as he says it, but Mathieu can't. The child nods eagerly, beginning to smile a little. "I'm sorry that Francis and I were fighting. We didn't mean to wake you." Mathieu doesn't even look like he understands everything Arthur is saying but it sounds so beautifully melodic and friendly, rolling off of his tongue that Mathieu just beams.

We stop at the next service station and go into the overpriced mini-mall. Arthur pays for the hot chocolate and Mathieu's 'Happy Meal'. Arthur looks so happy and more relaxed than I am used to seeing him. I think that having a child around makes him feel less pressured to hate me; he hasn't glared at me once since Mathieu calmed down. When we eventually take Mathieu back to the car, he falls asleep as I strap him back into his car seat.

Arthur is watching me in the rear-view mirror and I feel myself smirk a little. I sit beside him in the front of the car, lean over and kiss the ever-embarrassed Englishman.


	4. Fear and Loathing in London Town

Well, I'm rubbish, aren't I? Sorry guys, I just had a lot of emotional stuff happen in my life. I confessed to someone and got rejected so, I haven't really felt like writing. But I managed to finish this chapter. Thank you so much for sticking around, you don't know how much it means to me.

I'd like to say a special thank you to Dionnysia who beta-read this chapter. You helped so much! Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Fear and Loathing in London Town<strong>

As of yesterday, I hadn't heard from Francis _or_ Matthew in a total length of two weeks. Bloody typical of Francis, that is. Take my money and affection and spit on it in a true French fashion. I had been worried sick about them – I don't trust that Francis' friends are a good influence on the impressionable toddler. I imagined all of these horrible things happening to Matthew, like having to listen to Antonio's appalling wailing whilst he plays the guitar or walking into Gilbert's bedroom after nine o'clock. And on top of that, he has an eccentric Frenchman to deal with. The poor sod.

This morning, I got a phone call from Francis (a weary Francis, at that) requesting that I babysit Matthew for the evening whilst he goes to work. Apparently everyone else on the entire sodding planet is too busy to take care of an orphaned toddler on a Saturday night. Francis had been sure to remind me of all of Matthew's traumatic experiences so far of his life, knowing very well that I wouldn't say no.

What if I'd had plans? What if I had made a meticulous plan for my weekly pub crawl? What if I had _wanted_ to get pissed tonight? No, all of my plans had to go on hold so that I could look after Matthew, who is currently sitting in front of my television; he looks positively enchanted by the screen, as though he's been hypnotised. I can't help but wonder if he should be sitting that close to the television or not. What if there's some sort of radioactive leak from the screen filtering into his head? Francis would kill me if anything happened to Matthew.

"How about you sit on the sofa? It will be much more comfortable up there," I ask tentatively and receive a long look from the child in response. He looks a little afraid of me, which in turn is making me feel all the more anxious.

"Sofa?" he echoes.

"The couch," I grimace at the Americanism.

"Couch?" Perhaps French will help.

"Yes, the, um…can-ah-pay."

"Canapé?" Matthew just looks even more confused. Bugger.

I stop hovering in the doorway and sit on the sofa, as afore mentioned.

"Like this. This is the sofa, you sit on them." Or do you not have them in Canada?

"Oui, c'est un canapé!" He (fleetingly) seems pleased with himself and waddles over, picking up his white teddy bear. He starts to look nervous again as he struggles up on to the furniture, sitting beside me. "Pardon-moi, monsieur. I did not understand what you said."

"Sorry, my French is absolutely appalling," I reply with a groan. How the hell did I ever get any qualifications in the sodding language? "I hope that I haven't confused you too much."

But Matthew isn't listening; he's too busy watching the cartoon that he had come over with. Unless I'm wrong, it's some sort of Disney film. I never really watched them as a child but I can assume that from the singing candlestick that this is a Disney film. My only problem with this particular DVD is that it's in French. Francis seems to making barely any effort at all to immerse Matthew into British society.

Matthew giggles in delight suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. The candlestick seems to be trying to woe a decidedly smaller clock. I don't know what it is about that candlestick, but I can't help but be reminded of Francis by it.

Not wanting to think about the ponce, I get up to grab the manuscript that I have yet to finish reading from the kitchen. I _had _been making tea, but it was probably cold now.

"Where is Papa?"

At this I raise my eyebrow, turning back to look at Matthew. He becomes a little embarrassed and cuddles his bear close to his chest.

"Papa…? Do you mean Francis?"

"He is Papa," Matthew grins at me, innocent as ever. I can't help but feel unnerved.

"Francis is Papa?"

"Oui," Matthew is starting to look at me sympathetically, as though I don't understand any language that exists on earth.

"Papa is Fr-"

"Where is he?" he pouts a little.

"He's at work."

"Vraiment?"

"Yes." Typical of fucking Francis to let the kid call him 'Papa'.

"Oh…" and he turns back to his film but quickly gets a second wind. "When am I going home?"

"You are staying here tonight, Matthew. _Francis_ will be here in the morning, okay?"

"The morning?" Matthew's eyes widen and his eyes begin to water. I can barely deal with crying myself, let alone Francis or his nephew. He starts to wail at a ridiculous volume, his face becoming red; tiny fists grip his bear tightly.

After getting over my agitation at the irrational reaction, I can't help but feel my chest beginning to ache. This poor child. He's lost everything and here I am being an insensitive bastard just because he wants to call his uncle his 'Papa'. Before I'm even aware that I'm moving, I'm kneeling in front of Matthew on the floor.

"Matthew... M – oh God… um, don't cry, lad. Please don't cry," I place my hand on one of his knees, giving a gentle squeeze. It doesn't seem to do a lot, Matthew is taking huge gulps as he breathes, hiccupping every so often. It almost makes me want to cry, too.

"Papa!"

"Shh," I hush, now awkwardly petting at his curly blond hair. "Come on now, it's not all that bad. You'll see him in the morning."

"Je veux Maman et Papa!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart…" I can't believe that I've said that to him. Why am I sorry? It's not my sodding fault that Francis is a twat and that his mother has died. It's cruel of me to be so blunt about it but what the hell am I supposed to do? I have no idea how to look after children. "Look, Matthew, how about I make you some hot chocolate?"

"Chocolat chaud?" he echoes after sharply inhaling a few times to calm himself down.

"Yes."

He nods erratically.

Eventually, I manage to settle him down with a mug of cocoa (because I don't have hot chocolate usually). His cheeks are still pink, tears clinging to his eye-lashes. He reminds me faintly of Francis the other week when he was crying. He isn't all that much like Francis in personality, though. Matthew is incredibly sweet behind all of the tears. Soon enough, I'm sure that he'll calm down completely. Crying doesn't seem like a normality for him because he screams much too loudly, as though he's in agony. It's painful to listen to.

We spend the remainder of the evening watching the various cartoons that he's brought with him and he doesn't protest when it's time for bed. He does, however, request a story once he's been dressed into his pyjamas (which I had to help him with – it's easy to forget how difficult such simple tasks can be when you're a child).

"Yes, yes. I'll tell you a story."

He shoves a book at me and I frown a little bit. The front cover doesn't look particularly interesting, certainly not what I'd call fiction anyway. And it's in French. It's almost like he's mocking me.

I eye Matthew carefully and he tilts his head as though he's unaware of what the problem is. Surely our past experiences with my horrible French had done enough damage to his ears?

"Wouldn't you like it if I told you another story, instead? I'm sure that you've heard this one lots of times."

"Non," Matthew shakes his head. "That one."

I sigh heavily.

"Fine."

When Matthew has finally fallen asleep, I can't help but feel equally as tired. This is partially why I have never had any interest in children. Okay, well that's not true. Perhaps I've thought about having kids once or twice but, honestly, I don't stand a chance. Not only am I extremely unattractive but I'm in a very complicated relationship with frog face.

It's times like these that I'm glad that I have a guest bedroom.

Just as I've managed to drift off to sleep in my own bed, the doorbell rings. Bloody typical. I blearily open my eyes and check the time on my phone. It turns out that I've been asleep for several hours; it's almost one o'clock in the morning. Who the hell is at the door? I bet that it's those kids from the other week, or just some drunk git who thinks that they've come home for dinner.

I close my eyes again, ignoring them as the doorbell rings again. Then my phone begins to buzz. A new message.

Let me in, mon lapin.

Francis x

Oh joy. I roll over and try to fall back asleep. Fuck him, he can stand out there all night. The phone buzzes again.

Don't ignore me.

Francis x

With a sigh, I haul myself out of bed and to the front door, holding down the buzzer to speak to him through the small microphone. I can see him on the tiny screen. He looks smug, the bastard.

"What do you want?"

"Arthur, it's so nice of you to join me. Alors, open the door please. I am in need of a bed."

"Then go home," I growl in response.

"I have left my key behind," Francis is pouting now. Although it's dark, I'd recognise that expression anywhere.

"Well, that's your own fault."

"Arthur, je ne veux pas loger à la belle étoile!

" What ? " I frown, "It's too late for me to understand what you're saying in froggy language."

I want to go back to bed, I can feel it calling to me.

"Arthur, this isn't funny," Francis is starting to frown a little.

"It's not my problem. Come back in the morning."

"It _is_ the morning."

"Well, at a more suitable time, then! Now bugger off!" I start to walk away when my phone starts to ring. He doesn't give up easily, does he? He never bloody has. Never respects my wishes.

Reluctantly, I answer the phone to hear Francis crooning. Jesus Christ.

"_Quand on a que l'amour, a s'offrir en partage_ – "

"Francis, what do you think you're doing? I've had enough of you. Stop singing."

"Ah, in English, then? _Sometimes I feeeel so 'appy! Sometimes I feeeeel so sad_ – !"

His voice is low and guttural, barely in tune. I start to smile before realising that he's butchering The Velvet Underground.

"Oh, shut up! Fine, you can come in," I hiss momentarily forgetting to keep my voice down. I hang up on him and stomp unceremoniously to the door, pressing the button to open the door downstairs. Francis arrives within a matter of moments – I only live on the second floor, after all. I open the door for him and he grins at me, toothily and sly. He slips out of his black parka and passes it to me, to hang up.

As I am reaching upwards to place the coat on the hanger beside the door, I feel him press up against my back, arms around my waist. He kisses my shoulder and I try to think about how unpleasant his stubble feels as it brushes against my bare neck.

"I want to go to bed," I grind out before elbowing him sharply in the ribs. Despite stumbling backwards and yelping melodramatically, I know that he's fine. "Don't forget to take your shoes off." I eye him carefully before turning on my heel and heading straight for my bedroom. Francis (unfortunately) is following me. I make sure to switch off the lights as I go, immersing the moron into darkness every so often.

He makes a show of taking off his belt and his socks, much to my chagrin. I roll over in bed, facing the wall adjacent from him. Damn Francis.

The said man clambers into bed beside me (now trouserless) and snuggles up against me like a small child in search for its mother's teat. What a disturbing thought. His head presses against my back and I hear him sigh. It isn't a nice sound, like he's relieved.

I really don't want to turn over. I want to sleep. I _need_ to sleep. I shut my eyes and attempt to convince myself that I don't give a fuck. But when he sighs again, I have to turn over to look at him. Francis takes advantage of my new position and curls himself even further around me.

"How was work?" I mumble. He grimaces.

"I hate it there," he whispers, forehead against my shoulder. "You know, they have banned me from the kitchen now."

"Why on earth have they done that…?"

"I kept trying to make the food taste nice."

I laugh quietly and wrap my arm around him, palm flat on his back. "Oh really?"

"Mm," he confirms, scratchy chin nuzzling into my chest now. "What do I do, Arthur?" Francis' voice is small, as though he doesn't really want to ask me. I know that he would never ask me something like that if he could see me. He doesn't like to expose himself to other people, but I suppose that I don't either. In that way, we are horribly similar.

"You need to do what you want to do. I know that money is an issue in this particular case but you can't do something you hate forever. You're bloody well educated, Francis. Why don't you use that brain of yours for once?"

I didn't say that he was clever.

"I want to paint. I can barely afford to pay my rent. I cannot buy any materials or canvases."

What the hell is a canvas?

"Francis, I know next to nothing about painting, so I don't – "

"They are what you paint on, mon amour," he sounds amused and I feel somewhat stupid.

"T-that wasn't what I was going to say, you impertinent git."

"Bien sûr," Francis smiles. "Arthur?"

" What ? " I arch an eyebrow.

"Will you sing to me?"

"What…?"

"I like your voice. It is extremely soothing for my broken soul after a long day at work."

Never did he say that I was any good at singing.

"Um, I suppose so…" I can feel my cheeks turning pink. "I'll show you how to sing Pale Blue Eyes properly."

"Bon," Francis settles against me, comfortable.

"Uh… _sometimes I feel so happy. Sometimes I feel so sad. Sometimes I feel so happy, but mostly you just make me mad_," I can't help but feel on show even as his breathing begins to slow. "_Baby, you just make me mad. Linger on your pale blue eyes_," I murmur, much quieter. "_Linger on your pale blue eyes_…"

And then I realise that despite everything, despite how Francis is an uncouth sod with an irritating French accent and nice hair, that really… really, I do care for him. All the things that we say, we never directly compliment one another but we never insult each other, either. I don't think that there will ever be a time where I want to hurt him like that.

I brush his long hair from in front of his eyes and press a gentle kiss to his temple.

The door to my bedroom opens slightly and there in the doorway, I see Matthew. He's clutching his teddy bear tightly in his arms; he looks terrified.

"A-Arthur…?"

"Yes, I'm here, poppet. So is… so is Papa."

"Can I sleep with you? There's a monster under my bed," he quivers.

"Yes," I say softly, feeling far too sentimental for my own good. "Can you get up on to the bed?"

"Mhm," Matthew scrambles upwards and on to the mattress. He instantly nudges his way between Francis and I but I can't complain.

We sleep somewhat peacefully until Matthew decides that it's time to get up, at six AM. Francis stays in bed and I make him breakfast (which he refuses to eat). When they have to leave, Francis pulls me off to the side to kiss me.

God, I think I love him.


End file.
